THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.
The house where I wer born an’ bred,
Did own his woaken door, John,
When vu’st he shelter’d father’s head,
An’ gramfer’s long avore, John.
An’ many a ramblèn happy chile,
An’ chap so strong an’ bwold,
An’ bloomèn maïd wi’ plaÿsome smile,
Did call their hwome o’ wold
Thik ruf so warm,
A kept vrom harm
By elem trees that broke the storm.
An’ in the orcha’d out behind,
The apple-trees in row, John,
Did swaÿ wi’ moss about their rind
Their heads a-noddèn low, John.
An’ there, bezide zome groun’ vor corn,
Two strips did skirt the road;
In woone the cow did toss her horn,
While tother wer a-mow’d,
In June, below
The lofty row
Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.
A-workèn in our little patch
O’ parrock, rathe or leäte, John,
We little ho’d how vur mid stratch
The squier’s wide esteäte, John.
Our hearts, so honest an’ so true,
Had little vor to fear;
Vor we could paÿ up all their due,
An’ gi’e a friend good cheer
At hwome, below
The lofty row
O’ trees a-swaÿèn to an’ fro.
